


know lonely?

by idlesong



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23089069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesong/pseuds/idlesong
Summary: Somehow Guanheng’s presence has started to become as certain as the sun, although even the sun tends to disappear whenever Dejun decides he wants it around. Guanheng doesn’t.
Relationships: Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 18
Kudos: 98





	know lonely?

**Author's Note:**

> **additional warnings:**  
>  -explicit discussions of mental illness, particularly depression. a character describes his experience of a depressive episode.  
> -the recreational drug use is purely recreational and not a coping mechanism for this character.  
> -i intended to treat the themes explored with honesty and sincerity, and i never intend to romanticize them. they won’t be universal experiences by any means but they're sincere.
> 
> title from [kisses by the shivers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIWh1tVTTlA)

It’s sunny out, the first catch of warmth the city’s seen in days, and Dejun hates it. When things in his head aren’t working the way he’d like, when they’re cajoling him into staying in bed all day, he would much rather the weather encourage the same behaviour. A gloomy overcast of cloud and a chance of rain is a much better backdrop than the obnoxious sunlight flooding through the scratchy, fireproof curtains of his dorm room. It would be easier to pretend the last few days have been one long night.

It’s been a week and a half, maybe, since he noticed that he’s been feeling this way. Not unfamiliar, but recognizing it didn’t make him feel any better. Inconsiderate friend, asking for weeks of lodging without notice, but he’s made space for them on the other side of the bed anyhow. There’s always room for them.

Had he lived without other students, resigned himself to more anonymity in the crevices of an actual apartment, he may have really withered away a while back. As much as he values his solitude, he knows that he can’t afford to, financially or healthily, live somewhere without mild accountability. Even if he is an upper year and not obligated to socialize with freshmen, there’s some comfort to be had in the fact that _someone_ will realize his absence.

If that’s even what he wants. He flits in and out of such an idea.

Even with his friends. It’s guaranteed that Yangyang will notice. Will probably be the first one to offer to show up to his room, even if it’s only to do his homework on the floor while Dejun stares at the ceiling from his bed.

Last time he felt so low was when the new school year had started and he had just gone up on his med dosage because “readjusting to a fixed schedule is difficult” and “we’ll see how it goes for now”. He hasn’t been back to his psychiatrist since, because nothing significant has happened, good or bad. The higher dose was insignificantly noticeable, and he knew it was because his meds aren’t supposed to work like that. He’s not suddenly going to be radiant and smiling and ecstatic to go about his life. Things are manageable, and that’s enough most of the time.

But even then Yangyang had texted him asking if he had listened to some new album, and he texted back no, because he was in bed and it was 3 p.m. Yangyang initially said those two things had nothing to do with each other, and then asked if he should come over. Dejun said yes, and Yangyang helped him unpack the rest of his stuff and watched TV with him the rest of the night.

Yangyang hadn’t been around most of last week, decided to go stay at with Yukhei at his parents’ house for the tail-end of spring break, right after Dejun realized that old feeling was pervading his thoughts again. They had been texting throughout the week, but Dejun didn’t bring it up. There had been enough times already where he felt bad for concerning his friend, he didn’t need to do it at a time when all he could do was get consoled from far away.

It helped sometimes, but he’s aware that right now, he just needs to wait this out. This is the worst kind of episode, because he’s unsure of its origin and its length and how bad it could get. Maybe this is the worst it will get, he thinks, before it digs a little further down.

Two days back into classes, and he hasn’t been out of his room much at all. He ordered food over the weekend and has been shuffling to the common kitchen to warm up the leftovers. Eating doesn’t feel like eating, but he can’t forget hunger. He’s grateful for that, he thinks. There’s enough water in the pitcher in his fridge, and if he really needs more he’ll refill it after everyone’s gone to sleep.

No one on his floor knows him well enough to reach out, and if his RA did, he would reiterate that he would not hesitate to reach out in an emergency.

This is far from it. This is a lull in a dim channel, shifting slowly in a direction that might be forward because it doesn’t care about how time works.

There’s a stack of textbooks that he stacked on the chair he’s pulled next to his bed. It’s supposed to motivate him to read them like he’s supposed to, but instead he’s been reading their spines when he’s still in bed midday, blinking dry eyes at the serif titles like he could learn anything from them.

He’s been between feeling trapped in his body and feeling like he’s not in it at all. Any base needs wanting to be fulfilled pull him down, and satisfied, he floats back up. He hates this. He locks himself into sleep and shuts his eyes tight enough to have dreams he always remembers.

If he could disregard any reminder of reality in his sleep then it would be closer to legitimate escape. Instead he gets dreams of arguing with family, being late to everything, friends sneering at his inability to think straight. Visions that have him wake up wanting to try again in slumber until the somnolent petals plucked one-by-one reassure that someone still cares about him. He might pull out of every strand of hair before he gets there.

On the third day he finally gets out of his building, carrying his heavy limbs to his only class of the day. It doesn’t require any diligent note-taking, which is what he needs, in the hopes that it won’t overwhelm him. He’s expecting to sit near the back and listen, and try to avoid the feelings of guilt for all of the work that still has to be done.

“How are you?”

The first sentence addressed to him in a while, across the empty back row, the speaker’s notebook open on his lap. It’s Guanheng. He introduced himself to Dejun in the first week of class.

“Fine. You?”

“Tired,” Guanheng says, and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes take on a new meaning. “Almost didn’t make it. But the sun was too bright to go back to bed.”

A sentiment Dejun agrees with. He would always rather the sun be tucked behind the clouds, the wind loud enough to tell him even outside closed windows, _it’s okay, get more rest today_.

“I think it’s the first day of spring, too,” Guanheng continues without prompting. “And the days are already getting longer. That’ll probably be better, right?”

Dejun isn’t really sure what to say that to that. Any reassurances of whether things will be better that have been offered to him before felt rather empty. This is an outreached hand though, and light peeks through the fingers. It’s been raining steel pipes and he could use something tender.

“Yeah,” Dejun says in an exhale.

The conversation ends there, with the lecturer dimming the lights. It probably wouldn’t have gotten anywhere further, Dejun assumes. That’s okay. The short exchange resonates, still, because it’s the first one he’s had in a while. Even alone he doesn’t speak aloud much, preferring the silence when his mind was being too loud.

Two hours pass without major incident, and Dejun feels a little better as he jots down what he can as he listens. This class puts more priority on assignments than tests, anyhow. He’ll be fine even with a set less-than-detailed notes.

A few times he glances over at Guanheng, a few seats down. The projector omits its bright light in the window right above them, so Dejun can see whenever Guanheng dips his head down at his notebook.

Dejun doesn’t see other people take notes by hand very often. He does it too because typing distracts him. The sound of keys clacking is only tolerable when everything else is quiet in the comfort of his room. Alongside calm music is okay too, but nothing with too many words. All too often his mind is loud enough.

A few times Dejun shifts his line of vision to see whether Guanheng’s attention holds. It does, most of the time, but on one occasion he feels the look returned.

Guanheng lives in his building. Dejun found this out earlier in the semester when he realized he was walking some paces behind him after class toward their building. In Dejun’s dream last night his steps stalled, not wanting his presence to be disconcerting, but Guanheng had just turned around, smiled, said “hurry up” so Dejun did.

In the genuine occasion Dejun slowed down until a considerable distance grew between them. A nice person, he’s sure, but Dejun didn’t want to get on the same elevator. Not good at small talk. Elevator conversations are largely such.

The sun was coming up when Dejun fell asleep again, and he wakes up to the floor wobbly under his first step out of bed. His mind was muddied with the thin-stretched boundary dividing an abundance of rest and a lack of feeling rested. Everything else in the room is so warm that the touch of his steel bottle is cold to his fingertips. Water slips past, the chill growing familiar with every soft bob of his throat.

It’s warm, the colours that seep through the cheap curtains that do little to keep any light out. Another layer of rejecting the passage of the day wouldn’t be ideal, but it’d contribute to the activity of folding up his blanket to create as thick of a barrier as possible while still covering his curled-up figure. Sometimes he wishes it were always dark out, so he wouldn’t feel compelled to hold himself accountable for what he manages to accomplish.

The curt conversation with Guanheng about the new season gets turned over when Dejun’s eyes close. It’s the only in-person interaction he’s had in a while, and it gets picked apart for no deeper meaning.

 _how are you?_ As in did Dejun look as though he required an external check-in? He looked exhausted, he can easily presume, but how often was the question a greeting and how often a question?

 _almost didn’t make it. but the sun was too bright to go back to bed._ That much Dejun can garner doesn’t contain subtext. After such a long winter the early sun seemed foreign.

 _i think it’s the first day of spring._ It was, but Dejun didn’t really know what any of the solstices meant. A contrived meaning attached to a binary between seasons, maybe. The complaints of the early-risers spoke on seasonal change being a transition rather than a sudden shift.

 _and the days are getting longer._ Of course that means the amount of sun available to waking hours will increase from now until the marker of summer. It wasn’t making the _day_ longer though, not the amount of time counted by turning mechanical hands.

 _that’ll probably be better right?_ Dejun would hope so. That’s what he anticipates, albeit passively, when he’s dwelling on how his thoughts wouldn’t let him shut off for the night. He keeps thinking toward and about the future, how things should get better, because it’s what he deserves after the hardship. The absolute least would mean that it never goes lower than what it has been.

How is he supposed to articulate his mind’s maelstrom? The only data is qualitative, the half-hearted activity of holding a pen and dragging it along an unlined journal whenever he feels tired but sorry enough for himself to write a reminder of how bad it could get. But when it passes it’s hard to conjure, only the concern over its next visit permeates a relatively stable period.

 _almost didn’t make it_ , Guanheng said. _but the sun was too bright to go back to bed._

“This place is a mess,” Yangyang comments, stepping over a mound of clothing. “When was the last time you did your laundry?”

Dejun sniffs indignantly, not looking up from his laptop. “The number of days equal to the number of pairs of underwear I’ve gone through.”

“Don’t put your laundry off, that’s some freshman shit.” The creak of the closet door rouses Dejun’s attention away from his computer, for him to look up and see Yangyang hauling his laundry bag onto the carpet.

“It’s okay, I’ll do it,” Dejun says in mild protest, as Yangyang begins to pick up garments off the floor to toss them into the bag.

Yangyang glares at him, before his features soften. “Let me do this much. It’s easy to forget,” he says, warm in a way that used to make Dejun burn with guilt, before he felt okay with the help.

“Thanks,” Dejun says.

“Yeah, whatever.” Yangyang looks up. “Don’t just sit on your ass and watch me collect your socks. Order the pizza.”

Dejun closes his laptop and gets to a wobbly stance on his feet. His head feels a little better today. Less heavy on his neck and shoulders and spine. Something like that.

“You go to class this week?”

The question’s asked casually, not accusatory or prying, even if Dejun knows that it’s sourced from real concern. It doesn’t stain Yangyang’s intentions. Dejun used to get upset at questions like that. He didn’t like answering them, having to be reminded of his functional shortcomings. But no, no longer when he could manage to fight the thought away.

“Most of them,” Dejun answers. Yangyang just hums in response, but his expression brightens.

His best friend is curled up on the air mattress, sated by the bread and cheese they devoured earlier in the night and lulled to sleep by what they smoked before they ate the pizza. Must be nice. Dejun is staring at his ceiling with contempt, watching shadows slowly crawl along the walls. Now is as good a time as any to do his laundry.

He pushes the large mesh bag forward with his knee, unconcerned with the soft sound of scraping against the floor waking up Yangyang, as heavy of a sleeper as he is. When he slings the bag over his shoulder, Dejun realizes an advantage of not putting off his laundry: the bag wouldn’t be so heavy he has to drag it across the hallway in his journey to the elevator. That was the alternative to having the straps rip. His funds are limited as is. He’d rather save his pennies for more pizza and weed.

Most of the year he’s done his laundry at odd times throughout the night because 1) he doesn’t want to wait for a machine and 2) he’s up anyway. On occasion he’d run into someone else, interacting minimally other than a nod to say, “you see this shit too?”, with “this shit”, of course, being one’s course of life leading one to washing their underwear at 2 a.m.

Dejun’s really dreading having to live in a building without a laundry room one day. He hopes by that point in his life he’ll have become someone who will prioritize the responsibility of laundry, even when he is going _through_ it, in the same way he can’t stop himself from making his bed when he’s not in it. He’s tried rationalizing that before, but all he can come up with is the feeling of safety attached to knowing it’s made.

Now, unpacking all of that would take some time, but that is time he doesn’t have to offer up to on-campus therapists. (He would go, he really would, but his Skype sessions with his one back home have sufficed and he would feel like he was being unfaithful otherwise. Admitting as much would probably warrant another session.)

When he finally reaches the basement, he’s more reluctant to drag his pile of clothing across the floor. The dimmer lighting makes it harder to tell whether the floor is clean or not. He supposes his clothes will get washed anyway, but he doesn’t want to compile a film of dust on the bottom of his bag. He opts to bend at the knees and pick up the bag with two arms, cradling it like a large stuffed animal and waddling down the hall.

This position, however, makes it impossible to open the door to the laundry room. The bright sterile light taunts him through the small panel on the door. He kicks against it with the toe of his shoe, with whatever small hope he has that a fellow nodder will open it. Otherwise he could go through the trouble of putting his shit down and opening the door himself, but this is the route he’s chosen to go.

Miraculously the door opens, and light peeks through the blue mesh of the bag filtering Dejun’s vision as he enters the room. He sets the bag down first, next to the closest washing machine he can sense out with his limited knowledge of his whereabouts.

“Oh, hey.”

Dejun turns his head. It’s Guanheng. He’s not surprised to see that it’s Guanheng. Even if Guanheng isn’t one of those people he would expect to be doing his laundry in the middle of the night.

“Hi,” Dejun answers drily. “Come here often?”

“No. When I _do_ come, I need two machines,” Guanheng says, jutting his thumb at the running dryers.

“You can probably tell I’m not a frequent visitor either, huh?” Dejun opens the lid of the closest washing machine to him, starts tossing in his clothing at a quick enough pace that no one can sus out how many pairs of Doraemon shorts he owns. They were selling them in bulk, and only god can judge him.

Guanheng laughs good-naturedly, but neither of them make to say anything more. Dejun hops on an unused machine, pulls his knees up to his chin, and stares at his phone. Guanheng, sitting on the dryers across from the washers, assumes the same position, with a book across his elevated lap instead. Dejun can’t tell whether he’s taking notes in a textbook or writing in a journal. It’s probably not his business, but he asks anyway.

“It’s a journal,” Guanheng answers, making a point of showing Dejun the plain front cover. It’s paper-bag coloured, only a strip of blue tape in contrast to the rest of the design. Guanheng might have scrawled a word across the tape, but it’s hard to tell with the distance between them.

“Cool. I journal too.”

Probably not cool. A lot of people do it. A lot of people do it but don’t talk about it. Because it’s personal and there’s no point in talking about it unless it’s to discuss what you write about. And if that was the case then there wasn’t much of a point to privately record it.

“Yeah? Daily or just when it comes to mind?”

“When it comes to mind,” Dejun says. “I write whenever I feel like it. I wouldn’t do it if it was a responsibility.”

“Same, even though I think my entries are kind of boring. But if I feel like writing something down I can’t stop myself. It makes me nervous that I won’t be able to remember the thoughts later.”

“What kind of thoughts?” Dejun paused before asking, because it seemed like overstepping. But Guanheng was the one to say that they were boring, anyway.

In contrast Dejun thinks that anyone reading his entries would think he’s much worse off than he is. He gets dramatic and whiny and complains about everything in his journal, vomits all of his worst insecurities so he can read them over and realize they’re not so bad, or whatever. It’s a skewed version of what his therapist suggested, and he still does the “good” version before appointments with her, but he’s not so good at being optimistic when he feels like shit and his least favourite thing to do is pretend he’s not sad.

He’s sad. He’s been sad for a really long time and it’s not a sadness that makes him cry for hours and move on. It’s debilitating, and usually he can go about his day but there’s a central feeling of weakness in his body that sucks its surroundings towards it. And still, it’s usually fine. There are times like the last few weeks where it gets bad and he does cry for a while if only to have something to do while feeling sorry for himself.

This sadness feels like it’s irremovable, and it’s just something he has to carry with him, and that’s okay because everyone has to carry around their own shit but this shit is so hard to explain to anyone else without feeling like he’s going in circles or over-articulating to the point of diminishing return on his belief in its validity.

“ _It’s sunny out. It hasn’t been sunny in days. I wish spring break had been warmer. I was cold outside. I should have brought a hoodie. I said hi to Dejun in class. He doesn’t talk much._ ” Guanheng hides half a smile behind his journal. “It sounds like an entry from elementary school, doesn’t it?”

“I like it,” Dejun says, starting to smile himself. “It’s honest.”

“But is it true?” Guanheng asks.

“Partially. I think so much more than I talk. That’s why I keep a journal. To keep all of those conversations contained.”

“That’s fair,” Guanheng says. “But sometimes it’s good to hear a voice other than your own.”

“Maybe so. Sometimes your own doesn’t have anything good to say.”

One of the dryers Guanheng’s clothes are occupying ceases its whir, removing a layer of sound and leaving Dejun feeling more isolated in this room. Not alone, but still lonely, even with Guanheng recording his honesties across from him. Dejun stays idle on his phone, jotting down a thought to bring up to his therapist later in the week.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve brought him up,” Yangyang says, handing over the bag of chips to Dejun, who receives it on the carpeted floor. “What’s his name?”

Dejun doesn’t answer immediately, too focused on catching any potential crumbs travelling to the floor. He knows how much Yangyang will complain if he has to vacuum. “His name’s Guanheng. He’s in one of my psych classes,” Dejun answers. Had it been anyone but Yangyang he would have felt self-conscious at the recognition that Guanheng’s been mentioned a few times since their first verbal interaction.

“Huh. If he’s in your year, Yukhei might know him.” Yangyang says. That wouldn’t be surprising. Yukhei has a way of getting to know everyone, which is equal-parts impressive and scary at times. “Want me to ask?”

Dejun shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve just been running into him at random times lately.” Since the laundry room, the list has grown to include the vending machines on the first floor of a lecture hall, a bus stop he passes on the walk to Yangyang’s, and the dormitory’s southbound elevator this morning.

“Sounds like fate to me,” Yangyang remarks. “Is he cute?”

“Yeah. Shut up,” Dejun says with an amused smile. “I haven’t even thought about it…like that. It’s been a few coincidences. That’s all.”

It _was_ all, until Yangyang opened his big mouth. Luck or fate have always been tenuous concepts to Dejun, mostly means of being hopeful during trying times. Useful, certainly, but not without their impractical drawbacks. Now that he thinks about it in such a context, all of these consecutive run-ins with Guanheng have been awfully unlikely, and yet they still happened.

Despite having said nothing more, Dejun tells Yangyang to shut up again. Yangyang smiles triumphantly.

Dejun rarely stacks his feelings into anything unpredictable, but he doesn't want to think about the odds of the random promise he made to himself. _If I run into Guanheng sometime today, I'll ask him to hang out_ is what he says when he's leaving his room in the morning. The floor is noticeably tidier, since he bothered to throw his laundry in his hamper rather than on the linoleum. Apparently that makes a big difference. Cool.

His room key clinks against the coins in his pocket, the only cash Dejun ever carries for vending machine and laundry purposes. He hardly even carries a wallet around anymore, opting to pay for everything with his phone. It always backfires when he and Yangyang go to their regular cash-only sushi joint, but Yangyang owes him so much money for all of the UberEats orders already. This is their give-and-take.

Dejun ponders whether he should pester Yangyang into coming over so they can write their papers next to each other tonight. While trying to recall whether his friend mentioned that his was due tomorrow or next Friday, the elevator arrives.

The door opens. Guanheng's eyes shine when they widen in recognition. Dejun feels relieved. There had been no consequence to his promise, but Yangyang's wording had weighed on him. Fate. It was dumb, but Dejun didn't have that much reason to put faith in anything rational either.

"Hey," Guanheng says first, taking a step to the side to let Dejun stand a comfortable distance away.

"Hey." Dejun shifts his weight from one foot to the other. When faced with his own ultimatum he finds it difficult to stay truthful. It's not a matter of whether Guanheng says yes, it's what comes afterward. Dejun thinks too far ahead, already dreads the possibility of joy being squandered.

The elevator doors open. Guanheng quickly nods to acknowledge the closure of this interaction and hurries off first.

Dejun, in less of a rush to get to the library, takes steady steps out of the building. His chest feels heavy, as though he had just been crying. But he hasn't been. He doesn't cry when he's depressed, he cries when he's sad. Sad over a movie or a song or something that ends. He doesn't waste tears on himself when he wallows in self-pity.

The way he feels is unchangeable. He's not ashamed of it as he once was. It’s more of a manageable illness than a curable one. But all the same if he's not trying to manage it then he's making himself worse. And that's what upsets him the most.

His dorm building is located further from the main campus, which he had considered when picking it, not wanting to feel like he was always at school. He liked the walk back in the mornings too, when he could observe the buildings in the vicinity revealing their age as the crackled vines and amateur ivy embraced their stone exteriors.

There were more modern inventions too, but Dejun likes where he lives. It reminds him of novels wherein students would undergo their comings of age and discover themselves to be remarkable. He used to hope that for himself, but he’s managing his expectations as of late. He wants to think of himself as formidable, simply for existing, despite the internal warfare.

More often he thinks of himself as average, doing as much as everyone else without consideration for his circumstances. Who is he to deem himself special?

For the rest of the day, Dejun is expecting something bad to happen to him. That would be the fitting universal response for breaking his own promise. When he texts Yangyang about it, his friend gives him the saddening reminder that the bad thing is nothing happening at all. But his own frustration at his lack of action is interrupted by two texts, back to back.

His phone’s vibration rings harshly against the wooden surface of the desk, and is a clear disturbance in the otherwise silent library. He frantically grabs at the device, trying to ignore the dirty look he’s receiving from the student at the adjacent cubicle.

The first text is from Yukhei, reading _hehehehe_ , which thoroughly perturbs Dejun. Most of what Dejun knows about Yukhei is through Yangyang, and most of that has been trouble.

The next text, delivered more recently than Yukhei’s, is from an unsaved number. It reads _hey Dejun_. Dejun mouths _hi_ back at his screen, confused. Not knowing what to do with either message, he sets his phone back on his desk.

But his phone, of course, buzzes one more time, which elicits a sigh from the same student as Dejun whispers an apology.

_sorry i should have mentioned this is Guanheng._

He reads the text as he mutes his phone entirely, although he’s tempted to make a noise of his own when he processes it.

_i got your number from Yukhei. i hope that’s okay._

It’s okay with Dejun. He’s not even going to question how this worked out for him because he’s already thinking of what he owes Yukhei for this. But after deciding on an iced coffee, he types a text back.

_that’s fine. what’s up?_

Guanheng replies quickly. Dejun wonders if Yukhei is reading this whole interaction, if Guanheng had asked about it in person, and if he had been feeling some fear that prevented him from asking Dejun for his number himself this morning.

_i’m having some trouble with the psych assignment :/_

Dejun’s shoulders fall. Oh, yeah. Yukhei takes the same class as them, but at a different time. Yukhei knows this too. Yukhei knows that Dejun does fairly well in school, despite some unstoppable obstacles. Dejun starts to connect the dots.

_would you help me out? we can go to a library, or you can just come to my room. whatever works for you, whenever you’re free_

Dejun, holding his phone tightly with both hands, presses it to his forehead while recalling any string of words that will come out naturally. Of course he wants to say yes. This is what he’s been asking for the universe for, although in the vaguest of terms. Admitting what he wants is hard.

_sure. i have some time tonight_

When Dejun leaves the library, it’s not as dark out as he expects. It confuses him until he remembers the solstice’s occurrence a few weeks ago. Right, the days are overtaking the nights. Dejun thinks he prefers the night, but his insomnia can hold him hostage to the illusion of the calm in the dark. When it happens, he hears a whir of the world moving around him and all of his joints grow too weak to hold up his body. Somehow night still feels safe. The anonymity quiets the anxiety that kept him tense until the sun went down.

Without realizing it himself Dejun is doing a little better now. He still has trouble getting out of bed in the morning but he’s not so exhausted that he sleeps through his alarms like before. He’s been going to class, handing in the last of his assignments for the semester, and starting to think about where he should live next year. Yangyang’s house is going to have a vacancy soon since one of his roommates is graduating. Dejun tells him that he’ll consider it.

When Guanheng opens his door to Dejun, it’s bright inside his room. The curtains are drawn open, light low with the evening settling in, and Guanheng’s attached something to light fixture so it washes over as a shade of yellow that’s less severe than its default. It’s practically the same room as Dejun’s, if not a little smaller and better organized.

“Hey, thanks a lot for coming,” Guanheng says, smiling as he lets Dejun in.

“No problem. Better off figuring it out together anyway.” Dejun, in uncertainty, just drops his backpack on the ground before wondering whether he should sit on the floor or the bed or the chair propped up against the dresser.

“You can sit on my bed, if you’re okay with that,” Guanheng says, noticing his reluctance.

“But I’m in my outside clothes,” Dejun squeaks in a mild rebuttal.

Guanheng just laughs. “Don’t think badly of me, but I don’t really mind it. Sometimes I get fully under the covers as soon as I’m back from class.” He takes a seat by his own desk, his laptop opened to the article they’re meant to analyze for their assignment.

“I won’t think badly of you. Just mildly upset at the thought,” Dejun says, followed by a good-natured laugh. As much as he tends to jump into bed at the first chance, he always changes. But maybe Guanheng’s habit is equal to Dejun’s habit of putting off his laundry as long as he does. “So. What’s up with the assignment?”

Guanheng settles back in his chair and crosses his arm. “I understand the article itself, but I’m having trouble answering the questions. I can’t tell if I’m just restating facts with no substantiation.” He turns halfway to open a document, in the format of their paper.

Dejun stands up from his spot on the bed to get a closer look. His current glasses prescription has been reminding him lately that he needs to get checked for a new one. There’s no way his vision is what it used to be, not with all of the squinting he’s had to do lately.

“It looks okay to me,” Dejun says as he reads what Guanheng has written so far. It’s a straightforward assignment, so there’s not much he could do wrong, but Dejun still thinks it’s better written than Guanheng must expect of himself. “You don’t have any stand-alone summarization. It should be fine.”

Guanheng’s a good writer, not that Dejun’s surprised. Every time they’ve sat next to each other in class Guanheng has seemed to pay diligent attention.

“What about this part about the materials?” Guanheng asks, scrolling to another page of the document.

“I think you need to be specific about what the control measured, but that looks fine too,” Dejun says, cautiously leaning in further. His chin is hovering over Guanheng’s shoulder, and when Guanheng turns his head slightly to reply, the close proximity catches them both off guard.

Neither of them back away, but Guanheng lets out a small laugh of embarrassment. Dejun backs off, but doesn’t retreat as far away from when he started. They share a moment of silence that feels natural.

“To be honest, I’ve read the article and the questions but I haven’t even started writing,” Dejun admits, falling back into sitting on the bed. “I got an extension.”

“Oh, do you have a lot of other stuff to do?” Guanheng asks, and he seems genuinely curious as opposed to feeling compelled to small talk. It makes Dejun ponder why he’s here. To help him with this assignment, surely, but now he’s wondering if he hasn’t picked up on something.

“I haven’t been feeling well, so I sent the prof my accommodation documents.” Dejun is used to speaking about these things candidly now, but he’s still prone to bristling. He doesn’t want anyone to think less of him—and he doesn’t think he deserves to be thought less of—but people can suck.

“Sorry you haven’t been feeling well,” Guanheng says, because he certainly doesn’t suck. “I think something about the seasons changing is brutal. Even when the days are getting longer.”

“Yeah, I’ve been having trouble sleeping so I hate that the sun comes up earlier now. When it’s dark I can at least pretend it’s not _that_ late, you know?”

Guanheng laughs good-naturedly. “Exactly. Sometimes when you stay up late it feels like you’re trying to delay the next day. But then the sun comes up and it’s suddenly unavoidable.”

Dejun intimately knows about unavoidable days. The sun should be a good thing. It keeps the flowers fed and makes the world colourful. But Dejun has been hating it lately. Its obnoxious brightness reminds him that things around him are changing even when he’s trying to stay still. He feels like everything is moving forward without him.

Although he hasn’t said anything back, Guanheng speaks again. “Is that why you were doing laundry at 2 a.m?”

“Pretty much. Also there’s no line for the machine. And occasional company from fellow insomniacs.”

“Wait until exam season and everyone will be a fellow insomniac,” Guanheng says, reclining backward into his chair. “But don’t worry, I’m not bandwagon sleep-deprived, just regular sleep-deprived from coping with school and life and stuff.”

“Hopefully both of us can journal the pain away,” Dejun says, although he doesn’t write as often when he’s not feeling so well. When he does write in that state, his entries are a lot longer and more scattered than normal, but he doesn’t like to keep a close consistent record of his bad periods. That might make them seem more real.

“You know.” Guanheng starts his thought and pauses. The first uneven rhythm in their conversation throws Dejun off, but it seems meaningful. “I wanted to talk to you for the longest time. But I couldn’t do it.”

“But why?”

“That night in the laundry room. I wasn’t having a good day but talking to you made me feel a little better. I felt like I owed you something.”

“So…you asked me to help you with an assignment?” Dejun asks, not accusatory, but mildly amused.

“It was all I could think of,” Guanheng says with a slight laugh. “I was going to let it go but then we kept running into each other and I wanted to do something about it. Seemed like a sign. Is that weird?”

Dejun shakes his head. “I thought something similar. I just…I haven’t been doing so well lately.”

“I get it.” Guanheng smiles, but it isn’t convincing, it’s fragile. Not that Dejun’s seen otherwise before this, but it’s unnerving while familiar. It’s the same hurt, at least a similar form. Dejun recognizes it, like an own extension of himself. Even still, there’s nothing comforting about the feeling.

“How long…” Dejun begins to ask, but he doesn’t know what more to say. Or rather, he doesn’t know how to say it without overstepping. It’s a question he would feel uncomfortable confronting himself.

“It’s strange, sometimes I feel like I’ve felt this way forever, but it wasn’t like this when I was young. It couldn’t have been so bad then, right?”

The edges of Dejun’s illness grow blurred with time but may have lent him a doubting retrospect—he seems to bleed all the same when he wades into his memories. Still, Dejun understands, but is not consoled by his capability to empathize. The recognition in Guanheng, however, stands to shrink the distance between them.

“I think I understand,” Dejun says softly. “Did you actually need help with the assignment?”

“A little,” Guanheng admits. “I mostly wanted to talk to you in person so I couldn’t chicken out.”

“Chicken out?”

Guanheng doesn't exactly answer his question, but explains it well enough when he asks, “Do you wanna grab dinner?”

“I’ve got to finish a paper tonight,” Dejun says, before appending too quickly lest he seem uninterested. “What about tomorrow after class?”

“I have night classes tomorrow. What about the morning?”

“Like, breakfast?” Dejun can't remember the last time he's eaten _breakfast_.

“If you’re an early riser. We can go to a diner.”

Dejun mulls it over. He can try to sleep early for once. “Okay. Do they have pancakes?”

“You bet your ass they do.”

It would be fine if Dejun left it at that. He could say his perfunctory goodbye and leave, but he lingers a beat longer.

“Is it a date?”

Guanheng looks surprised. He smiles.

The next day is warm, warmer than usual, but Dejun still resists a shiver when the breeze comes through the open window. He’s going to keep it open more often. He’s trying to enjoy the reminder that the world’s just outside.

There’s a knock on the door. Before he leaves he closes the window but, after a moment of consideration, decides to leave the curtains open.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this! i started writing this exactly a year ago. i wasn't sure if i'd ever publish it but for all the time it sat in my wips writing it helped me feel a little better and make sense of my feelings in the past year. i know i haven't written anything in a while but i'm hoping i'll have more time and energy to do so once my semester is over.
> 
> i would appreciate any thoughts or comments you had if you're willing to share them. take care!
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/idle_song)  
> 


End file.
